A Fowl Odor

In early November, I returned from visiting my cousin and his wife near Myrtle Beach, South Carolina. I stopped at New River Gorge National Park in West Virginia on my way out and got in 12 miles of hiking to break up the long drive. I was able to play some golf and introduce my cousin Tom to pickleball. It was my first time back to the area since our family vacation/baseball tournament there in 2010.

Morgan and Carson played for the Sussex Hawks during their U-12 baseball season. It was the year the program typically sent their teams to the Baseball Hall of Fame in Cooperstown, New York to participate in a tournament. The format of the tournament included the players being boarded onsite at the baseball complex for the entirety of the tournament away from their families.

Because of their diabetes, Amy and I did not feel comfortable with the arrangement. Fortunately, the team was open to an alternative destination where we could better monitor and manage their diabetes. Thus, we ended up traveling to Ripken Baseball for a tournament in Myrtle Beach. I don’t believe the other parents were too disappointed to be headed to a beach destination instead of upstate New York.

We had an awesome trip and enjoyed time poolside with their teammates and beach time as a family. Amy loved the ocean and my memories of her with the kids in the water and sand will be etched in my memory forever. The weather was so fantastic that we decided to stay an extra day and long haul it home in one day instead of two.

We began our journey home at 6:00 AM EST. After a delay in Tennessee due to AC problems, we continued our long drive home. By the time we reached Chicago my fingers and hands began to cramp from gripping the steering wheel for so long. We powered through and pulled into our driveway at 1:00 in the morning. We were all drained and wanted to crash in our beds and unpack the next morning.

When we opened the garage door, we were greeted by a foul odor. We quickly surmised that the refrigerator in our garage had bit the dust while we were on vacation. This had given the various meats contained in the freezer ample time to become a toxic cocktail of rancid juice and spoiled meat creating a noxious puddle at the base of the refrigerator. Foremost among the meat, was a 15 pound turkey that looked and felt more like a giant marshmallow than a delicious meal.

Amy wanted to dive in and begin cleaning this mess immediately, but I just couldn’t do it. I and the kids were exhausted from the long drive home and wanted nothing more than to go to sleep. Amy and I exchanged a few stern words about our priorities, and I won the argument by simply stating she could do what she wanted, but I was going to bed. She reluctantly agreed to wait until morning.

Amy is obsessive compulsive about cleaning. I know she couldn’t sleep much with this task waiting for us in the morning. While I slept, she developed a strategy for the next morning. We would empty the meat in the refrigerator into a plastic bin. Because garbage day was still several days away, she thought we could dispose of the meat at the dumpster at the Village Park. We would then empty and recycle all of the bottles and cans that had been contaminated by the rancid meat juice. The last task would be sterilizing the refrigerator with bleach and placing it curbside for pickup on garbage day.

At 6:00 AM Amy woke me. She was intent on getting an early start to executing her plan. When she shared it with me, I grudgingly agreed figuring it would be better to dispose of the meat with less people up and about. I did make one change to her plan, however. I insisted that the plastic bin of foul meat would not enter either of our cars even with the windows down!

Amy donned yellow rubber cleaning gloves and with a bandana over her mouth she emptied the meat into the plastic bin. I busted out the bungy cords and strapped the meat filled plastic bin to the top of our Ford Expedition. We drove slowly to a remote corner of Village Park. I can only imagine how any neighbors who saw us interpreted this strange site. We dumped the container into the dumpster and made a quick getaway.

Later that morning we confessed our deed to a neighbor. They kindly called the Village claiming they had been running past the dumpster and reported the smell emanating from it. They were reassured that a garbage truck would be dispatched to empty the dumpster.

The refrigerator turned out to be a tougher job. No matter how many times Amy and I scrubbed the inside of the beast with bleach, we could not rid it of its rancid smell. We removed the doors and put it out by the curb to be picked up by the disposal company on garbage day.

Hundreds of flies immediately found it and feasted on whatever microscopic morsels remained for them. As people passed the refrigerator walking their dogs, our family got twisted pleasure as we saw the dogs go crazy to get to the refrigerator and its’ smell hit their owners. Faces contorted in the most amusing ways as the odor hit their senses when they came within proximity of the refrigerator. Most would immediately cross to the other side of the street.

We were grateful when garbage day arrived knowing it would be hauled off. To my surprise, the local junk guy (a regular who cruised through the neighborhood before the garbage trucks arrived looking for salvageable furniture and other items) stopped when he saw the refrigerator. I was mortified as he loaded the fetid thing into the back of his minivan. I cannot imagine the stench he put up with on his drive home, but I was relieved to finally rid it from my front yard.

I am grateful to my cousin Tom and his wife Kathy for their hospitality during my visit. This time, my grief was not triggered by the flood of memories brought on by my return to Myrtle Beach. Instead, I recall the fowl incident with fondness. I can’t help but smile and chuckle when I envision Amy in her rubber gloves and bandana that morning. A small victory.